


chateau lobby #4 (in C for two virgins)

by pentaghastly



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Jon and the Starks Are Not Related, also me: writes this shit, me: oh i don't really ship anything in game of thrones, this is a fuckin modern day pride and prejudice au babiessssss, this is so fucking fluffy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-22
Updated: 2019-04-22
Packaged: 2020-01-23 16:44:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18553729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pentaghastly/pseuds/pentaghastly
Summary: Sansa Stark is, to her very core, a believer.She believes in the healing properties of amethyst and lavender.She believes in the importance of eating alone no more than three times a week, and always taking time to answer her mother’s phone calls, if only to tell her that she doesn’t have time to talk. She believes that tea is always better with a little bit of honey, and that no one –no one– should live a life free of love.(Not even Joffrey Baratheon.)She believes that Jon Snow is an absolute, unmitigated ass.Of that, she’s certain.





	chateau lobby #4 (in C for two virgins)

**Author's Note:**

> this is fluffy shittttttt baby!!!!!
> 
> it came from a request on tumblr, and i don't really write jon/sansa much but i thought - fuck it, and i'm actually happy with how it turned out ! also: heavy quote inspiration from ghost quartet, so thank you to that whole album for being dreamy.
> 
> comments/kudos are a lifeline xx

i.

Sansa Stark is, to her very core, a believer.

She believes in the healing properties of amethyst and lavender.

She believes in the importance of eating alone no more than three times a week, and always taking time to answer her mother’s phone calls, if only to tell her that she doesn’t have time to talk. She believes that tea is always better with a little bit of honey, and that no one – _no one_ – should live a life free of love.

(Not even Joffrey Baratheon.)

She believes that Jon Snow is an absolute, unmitigated ass.

Of that, she’s certain.

 

ii.

This is how it begins:

It begins with party, as most terrible things do.

She’s been looking at him all night. All _bloody_ night, waiting for Robb to introduce her to the tall, broody stranger with the luscious curls and the dark-as-coal eyes. He’s the polar opposite of Joffrey, which means he’s exactly everything that she feels like she needs at the moment.

Suddenly she’s incredibly thankful for Margaery’s insistence that she invite Robb to the party. She knows that her best friend is absolutely moon-eyed for her brother, as most women are, and had begged Sansa in a rather uncharacteristic way to persuade him to come along. As it turned out it hasn’t been that difficult – all she’d had to do was text him a picture of Marg and he’d dropped practically everything to come along, all the while berating her for not introducing them sooner.

Except there was a catch, he said, because he’d already made plans with one of his new, law school-type best friends, and he’d have to bring him along.

 _Jon_ , Robb had said, and Sansa hadn’t thought much of it.

She wishes she’d thought more.

(She wishes she’d worn nicer panties. Maybe not put on lipstick so red that it made frightened to kiss anyone for fear of looking like a clown.

Maybe she should have stalked him on Instagram. Maybe then she wouldn’t be feeling so inadequate.

Maybe she’ll have to text Arya for dating advice. 

Maybe, maybe, _maybe_ she’s a fucking idiot.)

Finally Robb and Jon are making their way towards her and Margie after what appears to have been an extended pep-talk for her poor brother’s nerves, and she immediately downs what’s remaining of the beer in her cup. Liquid courage, after all.

“Sans, this is Jon,” Robb says, and Jon finally tears his gaze up from the ground to meet her own.

“ _Hi,_ ” she says, all breathy and enchanted, and thanks whatever Gods exist that Robb is too focused on chatting up Margaery that he doesn’t even glance their way.

She’s a little bit tipsy, a little bit flushed, and Jon…

Jon just nods.

That’s fine. Sansa’s not bothered by shyness – in fact, with Joff being the definition of a pretentious, boisterous asshole she’d much prefer someone gentle and quiet to someone who thought his voice was strikingly similar to that of God. She’ll get Jon Snow out of his shell, she’s sure. It’ll take a moment, but she can do it.

“Robb’s told me absolutely nothing about you.” She hopes he doesn’t take that as an insult. “I don’t know how you’ve endured his friendship, but I’m thankful for it. He was so nervous, finally moving out of our home and striking off on his own.” 

He’s still just staring.

“He’s a good friend,” Jon says after a beat, now decidedly looking anywhere but at her. “Even if he brings me places like this.” 

“The best,” she agrees, and she means it. Robb is already dragging Margaery onto the dance floor (of _course_ a Tyrell party has a DJ and a dance floor) and she rocks back and forth on her toes for a minute as if weighing her options. “Although I’m sorry to hear you’re not enjoying the party.”

“It’s fine,” he says, and Sansa makes a mental note – if his face is anything to go off of, _’fine’_ is a code-word for _’nightmare_ ’ in Jon’s vocabulary.

Jon takes another sip of his drink. Sansa desperately wishes she had a new one.

She fucking _loves_ this song.

“Do you dance, Jon?”

He barely hesitates in his response. “Not if I can help it.” 

It’s not the response that she’d expected in the slightest, but Sansa is nothing if not adaptable.

“What do you do, then?”

He takes another sip. Then _another_.

“Nothing that’d interest you, I’m sure.”

There’s a gravity in his voice that takes her by surprise. She’d known he looked like a serious sort, but serious didn’t always translate into _prick_. Gendry had seemed rather stoic at first; her father is one of the most solemn people that she knows, but he’s an utter angel once you chip away at his layers a little bit.

She doesn’t know if that could be true about Jon. All she knows is that she’s been rejected rather handily, and now she feels like even more of an idiot than she had before. 

Still, Sansa has grown enough as a person that she refuses to allow one very pretty boy ruin her entire night. Jeyne and Loras are out in the middle of the floor dancing as though their lives depend on it, and she can think of nothing more that she’d like to do in this world than abandon this horribly uncomfortable situation and join them.

“Right then. Enjoy your evening, Jon Snow.” 

She doesn’t turn around to glance back at him. She _won’t_

(If she had, she might have seen the way his eyes traced her every step.

She doesn’t.)

 

iii.

It’s later on in the evening that she hears it: the nail in the coffin of what is her opinion on Jon fucking Snow.

She’s about to enter when she hears Robb and Jon chatting – or, rather, her brother chatting rather enthusiastically and drunkenly while Jon listens in relative silence. Typical of Robb, she thinks, to not allow any of his friends to get a word in edgewise. Although Sansa supposes that, if his apparent inclination towards muteness is any indication, he Jon truly are a perfect match.

“Margaery is _amazing_. Honestly Jon, I think this girl could be the one. I think she might be fucking it, you know?”

“You said that about Myrcella.”

“Yeah, but –” 

“And Roslin.”

Sansa has to struggle to keep in her laughter. Jon is right; if there’s one member of the family who’s more of a hopeless romantic than herself, it’s Robb. He’s just not quite as willing to admit to it as she is.

“Shut up, mate. What about you, then?”

 _Yes, Jon,_ Sansa thinks, _What about you?_

Jon grunts, in what Sansa suspects to be barely-suppressed annoyance. “No one here is really my type, Robb.”

“What about Sansa? She’s single.”

She loves her brother.

She really, properly loves him.

Sure, Jon had been an asshole to her earlier, but she’s sure that if her brother approves of him then there has to be something more hiding beneath the surface. Robb knows her romantic history has been less than stellar, and she’s sure that her most over-protective sibling would never try to set her up with someone he didn’t deem to be worthy.

“Sansa’s…fine.”

 _Fine_.

“Fine?” Robb echoes her thought’s perfectly, and again, she loves him. “What’s that supposed to mean, Snow.”

“I told you. No one here is my type, your little sister included.”

She doesn’t stay to hear the rest.

No, Sansa Stark has heard absolutely everything she needs to form her once and forever opinion on the enigma that is Jon Snow:

He’s an asshole.

 

iv.

She finishes her night with six tequila shots and her head in Margie’s toilet.

It’s almost enough alcohol to wipe Jon Snow from her memory.

Almost.

 

v.

To her chagrin, Robb and Jon do not stop being friends.

In fact, he starts bringing Jon around more and more frequently. This would be fine, Sansa thinks, she could _handle_ it, if it weren’t for the fact that the entirety of her bloody family seems to open their arms and adopt him as one of their own.

Her father calls him _Son_. Her mother kisses him on the cheek. He has _Lord of the Rings_ marathons with Bran, plays football with Arya, and teaches Rickon how to skateboard.

Even Gendry loves him. Even _Lady_ loves him, the traitor.

What makes it all worse is that Jon doesn’t treat the rest of her family like he’d treated her.

He loves them. He adores them.

He barely even glances in her direction.

Sansa brings it up to Robb one night, when he and Marg and her are curled up on the couch watching a shitty true-crime show – her role as the eternal third-wheel is getting only partially exhausting.

“That’s just Jon,” Robb says with a shrug, as if this explains everything.

“He’s a prick.”

“He’s a softie,” Robb scowls, defending Jon with the sort of vitriol that he usually only reserves for his siblings. “You must have said something to piss him off.” 

“Is it because he has more money than us? Is that it?” 

It obviously _isn’t_ , because if it was he’d be treating the rest of their family like he was her. Still, ever since she’d found out that his father is Rhaegar bloody Targaryen, that his aunt is _Daenerys_ , it’d been hard not to think about.

“You know that’s not it, Sansa.”

“Maybe he’s just in love with you,” Margaery says with a shrug, as if this is the most obvious answer in the world. “Robb, love, you did say he’s not exactly…skilled with women. Or at least, not skilled with them _outside_ of bed.” 

That is…

That is far more information than she needed.

(She won’t be able to stop thinking about it for the rest of the night.)

“He’s definitely not in love with me,” Sansa says, because it’s one of the most ridiculous things she’s ever heard. Jon Snow may be many things, but in love with her?

That, he most certainly is not.

“I swear,” Margaery sighs, long-suffering and dramatic as ever, “you Starks are about as perceptive as doorknobs.”

Robb, on the other hand, is silent.

Uncharacteristically so.

(She’ll dwell on that later.)

 

vi.

“That’s very nice.”

The _that_ in question is a portrait she’s painting, one of Arya wreathed in blue roses and blinding light, _Birth of Venus_ style (except with significantly more clothing). She’s very nearly finished, which is a relief as the party is in just a handful of days.

The person speaking – well, she doesn’t need to turn around and look to confirm who it is.

She doesn’t know what Jon Snow is doing in the door of her room, but she knows that the sight of him near her bed is bringing up an awful lot of repressed feelings that she’d really rather not have bubble to the surface at the moment.

Sansa is doing _such_ a good job despising him. 

She refuses to allow his gorgeous curls to ruin all of her hard work.

“It’s for Arya’s birthday,” she says, trying to keep the tension firmly in her spine and out of her voice. “Thank you for saying so. _Nice_ is much better than _fine_ , I suppose.”

If he understands the gravity of her words, he doesn’t let on. “She’ll love it.”

Sansa hums, pleased at the near-compliment but refusing to allow it to show. “I’m glad to hear that it meets your standards, at least.” 

“And what do you know of my standards?”

“That they’re particularly high, for one.” Sansa is focusing on the stroke of her brush against the canvas, doing everything she can to keep her hand steady as she paints. If he messes this up for her, she’ll – in fairness she probably won’t do anything, but she _will_ be furious. “After all, if no one at a Tyrell party is ‘ _your type_ ’ then I can only imagine who, or what, might be.”

She hadn’t ever meant to confront him about it.

She hadn’t ever wanted to, but then she knew what they said about the best laid plans.

(They’re nothing against a woman scorned.)

“I…I didn’t realize you’d heard that.” 

“Obviously.”

“ _Shit._ ”

“If that’s supposed to be an apology, it’s a very awful one. And also not necessary.” 

“That wasn’t the apology, but I _am_ sorry. I’m not great with,” he waves his hands in the air vaguely, a dismissive gesture that only serves to confuse her more, “words, I guess. Talking in general. Especially to people like you.”

At that, Sansa frowns. “People like me?”

“Yeah. People,” he pauses, as if he’s weighing his options before continuing, “People I don’t know.”

“You seem to do just fine with the rest of my family.”

He scoffs, the closest thing to a laugh that she’s ever elicited out of Jon Snow. “Forgive me for saying so, but you’re hardly the rest of your family.”

Sansa finally whirls around to face him, veins thrumming with fury and annoyance and something else, something rather particular and warm that she’d rather not think about at the moment. She despises Jon Snow – she is _not_ allowed to be attracted to him when he’s making her so angry.

“I don’t understand what you want from me.” That is perhaps the most massive understatement of the year, but it’s the closest she can get to laying out all of her feelings without making herself seem truly pathetic. Even now, even in this moment, Sansa has a terrible feeling that she might be toeing the line. “I don’t understand what it is that I _possibly_ could have done to you.”

“Neither do I,” he says, head shaking slightly. She’s incredibly envious of how calm he seems at the moment; she’d rather like to take some of that steady confidence for herself. “Neither do I.”

She expects him to leave, but instead Jon hovers there for a moment, looking as though there’s something resting just on the tip of his tongue that he doesn’t know how to express. She wants to force it out of him, but then she also doesn’t want to give him the pleasure of knowing that she _wants_ to know what it is he has to say.

It’s all very complicated. Thinking about it for too long gives her a migraine. 

“If there’s nothing else, I do need to finish this.” 

He understands her dismissal, at least, but apparently that doesn’t stop him from pausing in her doorway once more.

“I’ll see you at Arya’s party, then?”

She doesn’t answer.

It’s only when she hears his retreating footsteps that Sansa releases the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, and thanks every bit of good karma she’s built up that she hadn’t allowed herself to burst into tears right then and there.

 

vii.

Arya is eighteen years old, and everyone -- _everyone_ – at her birthday party is drunk.

Sansa had promised her parents that she would be the responsible older sister. She’d promised them that she’d make sure nothing in the house got broken, that she’s call them if they needed anything and make sure that no one wound up arrested.

But then tequila had happened, and…

Well, she couldn’t quite remember the rest, but again:

Even the best laid plans of mice and men.

Everyone is dancing. Everyone is laughing. Robb and Margie are grinding in the corner and Arya and Gendry are in the middle of a spirited debate about which _Star Wars_ movie is the best, looking every bit in love even as they shout. Bran and Tommen are playing video games on the couch; Myranda and Mya are playing beer pong against Theon and Asha (and, naturally, losing rather horrifically). 

She’s been, for the first time in a long time, actually _enjoying_ herself. There are no aggressive ex-boyfriends, no dramatic fights between her siblings, and no parents hovering behind her making sure that she’s following all of the rules. For once in her bloody life, Sansa is rebelling in her own, subtle sort of way.

Sansa is rebelling, she’s properly, delightfully buzzed, and she thinks that nothing in the world could bring down her mood.

That is, until Jon Snow appears over her shoulder.

His cheeks are flushed rather prettily, in a way that suggests that he’s had just as much to drink as she has. It’s interesting – she didn’t stick around long enough to see him drunk at Margaery’s the first night they met, and they hadn’t been out partying together since. 

Sansa had always wondered what he would look like, if the prim and proper Targaryen would look anywhere near as handsome all sloppy and intoxicated.

If anything, he looks _better_. The bastard.

“Hello,” he says, and she has to glance around for a moment to make sure that he’s actually speaking to her.

“Hello.”

“You look very pretty, Sansa,” he says, with a confidence she never would have expected from him. It’s shocking, but it isn’t unpleasant. “You always look very pretty, but you look especially pretty now.”

“Do my ears deceive me, or was that a proper compliment?”

“I’ve complimented you before.” Jon sounds almost offended at the implication that he hasn’t.

“Calling me _fine_ is not a compliment.”

“I’ve said other things,” he insists. “Better things.” 

“Maybe one day you’ll even say them to my face.”

That elicits a laugh out of him – a small, half-huff, half-giggle that does not sound at _all_ like something she’d ever expect to escape from Jon Snow’s lips. It’s adorable, although she immediately curses herself for thinking so. She’s not supposed to think that anything that Jon Snow is adorable. Hot, maybe, but adorable?

 _Adorable_ is awfully inconvenient, because it carries with it a sense of affection, and Sansa Stark has sworn to loathe him forever.

“Before I do that, I’d like to apologize.”

She scrunches her nose up, not disgusted that they’re having this conversation but disgusted that they’re having it when she’s _drunk_. Right now she just wants to enjoy herself, not stress over very pretty, very dickish men and all of the stupid things that they say when they think that people aren’t listening. 

“Save it, Snow.”

He quirks an eyebrow, looking equal parts amused and shocked. “Seriously? You won’t even hear me out.”

“What? _No_.” She’s terrible at expressing her feelings when she’s been drinking, Sansa’s learned that much. “I literally want you to save it. Preferably for a time when I haven’t downed half a bottle of tequila in the past hour.” 

“Fair enough.” He hesitates, as though he’s considering leaving, but something – something seems to keep him in his place, although Sansa is sure he won’t spit it out without prompting.

“Is there anything else you’d like to say?” 

“I’ll say whatever you like,” he replies, and for whatever reason she believes him. “You just have to ask.” 

What would she like him to say?

She’d like him to explain why he’d been such an ass to her. She’d like him to explain why he’s being so nice _now_ , what prompted the sudden shift in his attitude from barely looking at her to initiating conversations with her as if they’re nothing. 

She’d like him to whisper every dirty, inappropriate thought he’s ever had about her into her ear. She’d like him to explain them in excruciating detail, and then act them out underneath her frilly, white covers. That is, _if_ he’s ever had any thoughts like that about her, which she doubts that he has, because apparently she’s not his type.

She’s like him to tell her what the fuck his type actually is.

“I would like you, Jon Snow,” Sansa pauses for dramatic effect, hoping that he’s feeling even half as nervous as she is at the moment – God knows he deserves to suffer, at least a little bit, “to say that you will fetch me another drink.”

Jon stares at the cup in her hand, then back at her, and then back again.

She thinks for a minute that he’s going to say no. She thinks he’s going to laugh in her face and walk away at best, or say another rude, dismissive, asshole-ish thing at worst. She doesn’t even know why she said it in the first place, it’s just –

It’s just that Sansa Stark believes in a lot of things.

Second chances happen to be one of them.

Apparently she’s right to do so, because Jon Snow doesn’t do any of the things that she’d feared he would. Instead he grabs her cup, rolling his eyes only slightly, but she’s paying awfully close attention to his mouth (she usually is, pathetic as though that is to admit) and she notices the way his lips curl up at the corner in what just might be a ghost of a smile. 

“And after that?” 

_Shag me senseless in the back seat of your ridiculous black sportscar._

“After that,” she replies, because she’s drunk but she’s not _insane_ , “you can help me kick Theon and Asha’s arses at beer pong. Those Greyjoys deserve to be taken down a peg.”

It’s not a ghost of a smile anymore.

It’s fucking blinding.

 

vii.

To her surprise, she spends the rest of the night talking to Jon Snow.

It’s not awful. 

It’s just awfully, _awfully_ inconvenient.

 

iix.

Jon Snow is her friend.

He’s her _friend_.

How the fuck did that happen?

It starts off with small things – they exchange numbers before parting ways at Arya’s party, and then he’s texting her a photo that reminds him of her, and then suddenly they’re sharing memes and they have inside jokes and, God help her, _nicknames_.

(At least, nicknames on his end. It’s nearly impossible to make anything cute out of _Jon_ , a fact which she laments to him multiple times.) 

They’re not best friends, and there’s still an underlying bit of awkwardness that she’s not sure will ever disappear. And, if she’s being honest, she still thinks Jon’s a little bit of an asshole – but she likes him, and she understands why the rest of her family does too.

Robb keeps brings Jon over to their house, and to everyone’s surprise he doesn’t avoid meeting her eyes anymore. Instead he smiles at her, bold and bright, and he sits on the couch next to her at movie night, whispering conspiracy theories in her ear about whether or not Loki is actually dead or if Hawkeye has actually been a Skrull this entire time.

Arya eyes them suspiciously. Bran seems content; Rickon indifferent.

Robb doesn’t seem to notice anything at all, bless his heart.

Not that there’s anything _to_ notice, because there isn’t. They’re still only just friends and Sansa is still sure that he’ll never see her as being anything else, and she’s very honestly okay with that. They’re too different – their lives are far, far too different.

So Jon Snow has been in her life for six months, an enemy for four and a friend for two, and everything is moving along at a steady pace. They’ve settled into a routine rather nicely, a fact which Sansa is incredibly grateful for. They’ve never been one for surprises.

Then Robb and Margaery announce that they’re getting married.

Getting married in a _month_.

And, as such, everything goes to shit.

 

ix.

“Leave it to the Tyrells to pull together something like this in four weeks’ notice.”

Sansa scoffs at Jon as he approaches her, although really she’s just pleased that they have a moment to chat. Helping Margaery with the wedding planning has been eating up the majority of her time as of late – being the Maid of Honour was far more work than she thought it would be, even for a bride as (shockingly) laid back as Marg had turned out to be.

She’d missed him. She’d _missed_ him, the asshole.

“I’m almost positive that Margaery has had this wedding planned since she was six. All she needed was a spouse to fill in the empty space.”

“Luckily she found one with as little impulse control as she has.”

“And people say soulmates aren’t real.”

She’s trying desperately not to feel uncomfortable under the scrutiny of Jon’s gaze. He’s got this look about him – this intense, _scalding_ look, and although there are times when Sansa thinks she might be used to it he still somehow manages to take her by surprise. She’s never seen him look at anyone else the way that she occasionally catches him looking at her.

Maybe that’s just wishful thinking. She has, on occasion, been known to fall prey to that.

“You look beautiful.”

“Well,” she reaches up to touch her hair self-consciously, the crown of auburn braids that had been piled atop her head, “you have hours of professionally-done hair and makeup to thank for that.”

“You know that’s not true, Sansa.” He’s still staring, and she’s still uncertain what to do with her hands. “You must know that.”

She knows she’s beautiful. Of _course_ she does. It’s just hard to imagine Jon knowing how beautiful she is, and it’s hard to deal with the fact that he’s appreciating her beauty in a way that doesn’t feel lecherous or wrong. Whenever Joffrey or Harry had complimented her appearance, they’d somehow always found a way to make it seem like an insult.

_You’re beautiful. It’s a shame you’re so horribly dense._

_You know you’re beautiful. Guess that’s part of why you’re such a prude._

Jon doesn’t compliment her like that. Jon compliments her like he means it, and she’s really not sure what to make of it all.

So she does what she does best, and deflects.

“Look at Arya and Gendry.” She points at where her little sister and her boyfriend are dancing, trying not to squeal with delight when she rests her head against his chest. “Aren’t the adorable? She’d kill me if I said so, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen her this happy.”

“I can’t believe she’s dancing.” 

Sansa laughs, a bit louder than she’d have liked, and shakes her head. “Not everyone is a complete stick in the mud like you, Snow.”

He goes quiet for a moment, and Sansa’s afraid that she’s said the complete wrong thing. All she can do is hope that Jon knows her well enough by now to understand that she doesn’t mean it – she doesn’t hold the same grudges against him as she had when they’d first met. They’re far beyond that point by now, or at least beyond it _enough_ that she’s over being upset.

Jon doesn’t look upset. He just looks…determined.

“Sansa,” he says, and he sounds more serious than she’s ever heard him sounds before which is a feat in and of itself, “would you like to dance with me?”

“You hate dancing,” she says, because right now she doesn’t think she’s capable of saying anything else.

“I never said I hated it. I just said that I avoid it.”

“You realize that asking me to dance is the opposite of avoiding it, right?”

“What can I say?” Jon shrugs, smiling bright, and – _oh_ , God help her. “I’m a changed man.”

“I struggle to believe that.”

“You still haven’t answered my question.”

No, she hasn’t. She hasn’t, because she’s avoiding answering him out of fear of saying anything stupid. She’s confused and the romantic atmosphere is messing with her brain, she swears, and the only thing that she can think to do is take Jon’s proffered hand and hope that her palms aren’t as sweaty as they usually get when she beings to freak out.

“If you step on my toes,” she says, keeping her voice steady as he guides her out into the middle of the dance floor, “I just might kill you.” 

“You could never.”

“Do you want to test that theory?”

“You’d be lost without me, Sans.”

Fuck, he just might be right.

The song is slow, romantic – God help her, it’s _Elvis_ , and she really does think that there’s someone up in the sky laughing at her misfortune. 

At least Jon is a passable dancer. More than passable, actually. He guides her in a soft, steady rhythm and holds her far closer than he needs to, but Sansa certainly isn’t going to complain. She feels his hand flex against her lower back and allows herself to think that maybe, just _maybe_ , Jon is as nervous as she is.

“This is nice,” she says, because she has to say something.

“It’s fine,” he replies, smiling at her, and she fucking _hates_ him.

(No, she doesn’t.)

She’s a few inches taller than him in her heels, but if Jon minds he doesn’t let on. Instead he presses his cheek against hers and guides them to the music, and Sansa pretends as though she doesn’t notice when Margaery shoots her a thumbs up from across the dance floor.

“You’re not just fine, Sans.” It takes her a minute to realize what he’s doing – he’s bringing back that apology she’d told him to save, and although she wants to stop him she can tell that he’s building up to…something. He deserves a chance to say his piece, she figures, even if she doesn’t feel as though it’s necessary. “You’re brilliant. And I’m an asshole.”

“Obviously.” 

He _is_ an asshole. That doesn’t change the fact that she adores him, though.

“Hang on. There’s a point to this, I promise.” Jon takes a breath, a pause, as though to steady himself before continuing. “The point is… _fuck_ , you know I’m terrible at speaking. The point that I’m trying to make here is –” 

“That you’re an asshole. Yes, Jon, we’ve established that.”

It’s not that she doesn’t want to talk about it. It’s just that she wants him to know that they don’t _have_ to talk about it.

“In my defense,” he says, and she can feel him smiling against her, “you’re kind of an asshole too.”

She lets out an indignant huff, but before Sansa can offer any sort of rebuttal Jon is lowering her into a dramatic dip, drowning out her complaints with giggles and an off-key impression of Elvis’ swoon-worthy crooning. 

He’s a horrible singer, and she could listen to him all night.

 

xi.

In the ladies’ room at twenty after eleven, she meets Jon’s aunt

She’s only met Daenerys Targaryen once before, but she doubts that the woman remembers her. It’d been at a function of Margaery’s father and mother, in a room full of the most influential people in Westros. The woman had walked in with hair like a crown of silver and a gaze as sharp as a knife, and Sansa had been immediately captivated.

That was years ago. Now – now she’s a little bit tipsy, flushed from all the dancing she’s been doing with Jon, and the only thing that she can think about is fixing the smudges of eyeliner under her eyes.

“You and my nephew seem close.”

 _Oh._ She certainly hadn’t expected the other woman to talk to her, and Sansa has to take a moment to compose herself before offering an answer. If she knows one thing about Daenerys (and she really doesn’t know much), it’s that you never enter into a conversation with her unprepared.

“Jon?” Sansa feigns innocence, although she’s certain it won’t work. “I suppose so. He’s become a dear friend of the family.”

“Funny. I’ve hardly seen him with a member of your family for more than five minutes tonight – besides yourself, I mean.”

There’s an implication there. Sansa’s clever enough to know what it is.

“They all came with dates,” she says, as if it’s obvious. “Jon and I didn’t.”

“Are you certain? I could have sworn you came together.”

 _Definitely_ an implication.

“Well,” Sansa shrugs, stuffing her concealer back in her clutch, “we did arrive in the same car.”

Daenerys almost looks amused, and Sansa’s going to count that as a point for herself. If she can keep the woman entertained, maybe she can stop the She-Dragon from lighting her ablaze. After all, she isn’t ranked at the very top of every Thirty Under Thirty list thanks to her warm, fuzzy nature. 

“You and I both know that’s not what I meant, Miss Stark.” 

“Sansa,” she snaps, a touch more forceful than she’d intended. “I assure you, your meaning is lost on me. You’ll have to lay it out far more clearly if you wish to have a discussion.” 

Daenerys is _smiling_. Actually, fully smiling. It’s a bit viscious, a bit predatory, but it’s a smile nonetheless.

Apparently being an asshole and being a Targaryen are one in the same.

“I don’t want to pick a fight with you, Sansa. From what I’ve heard from Jon, you’re an exceptionally clever girl – and you’re every bit as beautiful as he’s said.” She tries desperately not to blush at the compliment, although Sansa is very certain that she fails miserably. “I just want to make sure that your intentions with my nephew are the right ones.”

That is far, _far_ from what she had expected. Lightyears away, frankly.

“I don’t understand.” 

This time, she actually means it.

Daenerys seems to sense that, taking a step forward before elaborating. “Jon is a Targaryen. He’s also a bit of a hopeless romantic, which makes him the perfect target for people who want to use him for their own personal gain. You won’t be the first pretty girl to dig your claws into his heart and bleed him dry.” 

“With all due respect, I’m a Stark.” When that doesn’t seem to prompt a response, Sansa huffs in mild annoyance. “We’re not exactly destitute, and I’m not in the market for a sugar daddy.”

“It’s not just money, Sansa. The Targaryen name carries more power than that.”

Daenerys’ voice is soft, almost kind, but she cannot help but take the words as an insult. “I assure you, I have _no_ such intentions with Jon.” 

“So you’re saying you care for him, then?” 

Is that what she’s saying?

“I do.”

(Apparently, yes.) 

“But the two of you aren’t together?”

“No.” If her voice trembles a bit Daenerys doesn’t acknowledge it, and Sansa is immensely grateful for the fact. “No, we are not.” 

She’s never had a bathroom feel so _quiet_ before, or have an atmosphere so tense.

It’d almost be funny if the whole situation wasn’t… _this_.

“My nephew is a fool, Sansa.” Daenerys says, and before Sansa knows it the woman’s hand is resting atop her own. “Most men are, but Jon is especially so. You must try and be patient with him – if he’s half as smart as I hope he is, he’ll get there sooner rather than later.” 

With that she’s gone, and Sansa has to wonder if the whole thing was a strange sort of fever dream.

If it wasn’t…if it wasn’t (which she knows it wasn’t), Sansa doesn’t want to begin to think about what it is that might mean.

Instead – shots.

 

xiii.

She finds Jon on the edge of the dancefloor half an hour later – or, more accurately, Jon finds her.

“My aunt,” he says, breathless and sweaty and beautiful. “ _Fuck_ , I’m so sorry. My family doesn’t have any boundaries.”

Sansa quirks a perfectly-arched eyebrow. “You’ve met mine, haven’t you?” 

At least Jon laughs at that, although he still looks a little bit like he’s going to throw up.

“Can we go somewhere quieter and talk?” 

She concedes, and allows Jon to guide her out to the courtyard of the absurdly massive Tyrell mansion. It’s decorated with fairy lights and roses and paper lanterns, and she struggles to imagine how long it must have taken to put it all together. Yes, the Starks have money, but Tyrell money – _Targaryen money_ , she thinks, casting a sidelong look at Jon – is something difficult to comprehend.

Everything about Jon is difficult to comprehend. All the time that she’s known him (which really isn’t that long at all, she knows), and all the things that she knows about him (which she feels like must be everything), and she still feels as though she doesn’t understand him at all.

Hopefully whatever he wants to talk to her about will help her, at least a bit.

They stop on a bench by a ridiculously ornate fountain, although neither of them speak quite yet – he looks as though he needs to think first, and Sansa doesn’t want to derail whatever his intentions are by making some inane sort of comment.

The gardens are beautiful.

 _Jon_ is beautiful.

“I’m so sorry that she cornered you.” 

“It’s nothing,” Sansa says, and she means it. “She was perfectly pleasant.”

“She told me what she talked to you about.” He’s scowling, his expression adorably petulant, and Sansa wants to kiss the creases in his forehead. “Accusing you of being after me for my money – I _swear_ , Sans, I never would have thought that.” 

“She was only protecting you, Jon. It’s obvious she loves you.”

“Or she loves the Targaryen fortune.”

Both seem equally likely in Sansa’s opinion, but she’s not going to give him the satisfaction of agreeing with him. Besides, she’s certain that his aunt actually _does_ care about him – her intentions were good, she was sure, even if she didn’t go about acting on them in the right way.

“Or she can love more than one thing at a time.” 

“And to imply that we were together – I swear, I never gave her any sort of suggestion that we were. I’d never.” 

“You could,” Sansa says, before she can stop herself. “If you wanted to.” 

The air between them is heavy, and Jon is quiet.

Too quiet.

There’s crickets chirping in the background, and Sansa’s never hated a sound more.

“I was an asshole to you at Margaery’s party,” he begins, and speaks far too quickly for her to have a chance to interject, “because you’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen, and I’m an idiot with no social skills to think of. I saw you, and you’re my best friend’s little sister, and my brain just…froze.”

“Jon, you don’t have to –”

“And then Robb was asking me about you in the kitchen, and I didn’t know what to say. How could I tell him that I had just fallen in love with his sister at first sight? Because I _am_ in love with you, Sansa.” He’s speaking with a passion that she’s never heard from him before – Jon, usually so serious, with his eyes wide and his hands moving about dramatically in time with his words. “How could anyone not be in love with you? You’re the most incredible thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Jon, I –” 

“I’m so sorry I’m ruining our friendship. I’m so sorry I’m such an _asshole_. But my aunt told me that you two talked, and it let me hope that maybe there’s a chance you might feel the same.”

“Jon –” 

“She said that she thinks you care for me. That you _said_ you care for me. And maybe you just meant as a friend, but I can’t –” 

“ _Jesus_ , Jon, will shut up?” 

For once, for a glorious minute, he does what she’s told him to.

She’s never been more thankful for his silence in her life.

“If you want to know if I care about you, you could always just ask. Or,” Sansa shifts closer towards him on the bench, only a fraction of an inch but enough to make her intentions known, “you could always kiss me.” 

“I could?” 

“You _should_.”

He does.

He does, and it’s everything she’d imagined it would be. His lips are soft and his beard is scruffy and he tastes like cigarettes, like whiskey, like firewood and sweat and like _Jon_ , and it’s perfect. His right hand cups her cheek and his left slides up her knee, her thigh, under the hem of her skirt, and the logical part of Sansa’s head tells her that this has already gone too far for a public place but the other part – the other part tells the logical part to fuck off, and it does.

“Your hands are cold,” she says, a whispered breath against his lips, and when he laughs she thinks it might be the sweetest sound in the world.

“So help me warm them up.”

She does.

 

xiv.

Sansa Stark is, to her very core, a believer.

She believes in never drinking more than two cups of coffee per day. She believes in the restorative power of a warm bath, and believes that every winter outfit is made better with a fuzzy, wool scarf. She believes in souls.

She believes that Jon Snow is an absolute, unmitigated ass.

He also just might be the love of her life.


End file.
